


Waking Lions

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, cassandra's new bff, just probably going to post snippets as i write them, loyal circle mage, mild intrigue, semi-slow burn but it's me so let's be honest, vivienne approves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Margaret Trevelyan was a loyal daughter, a loyal mage, and a loyal servant of Andraste.None of those things helped her when the Conclave exploded.[or, a series of events where one Herald of Andraste lies about her name and tries to save the world anyway.]





	1. Way Down We Go

_I am Margaret Trevelyan._

Snow swirled in front of her face, the icy wind biting her cheeks and nose, but she kept walking.

_I am the third child of Edward and Lucia Trevelyan._

Her arms burned from climbing endless ladders, but she kept climbing.

 _I am from the Ostwick Circle in the Free Marches_.

The crowding demons breathed down her neck, and her hand was seared with foreign magic that forced its way into her veins, but she kept fighting.

 _I am going to die_.

This litany of facts kept her going, until they saved at least half of the missing team on the mountain. Margaret’s shoulders sagged as she leaned on her borrowed staff, staring up at the space where the writhing green rift used to be.

“This is the prisoner’s doing.” The Seeker’s voice, giving her credit. She nodded when the soldiers thanked her profusely, but said nothing. Between the way that the apostate kept looking at her, how he dodged her pointed questions about the magic that had bonded to her hand, and the nauseating feeling of her own aura violently recoiling and fighting against it—sapping her energy—she knew she would not survive this.

She hadn’t told them her name. She won’t.

A dark-haired mage with a Marcher accent would die trying to close the tear in the sky, but no one would ever know it was her. If she was unlucky, she would live to be executed in a sham trial for assassinating the Divine.

As they approached the temple, Margaret weighed her options of fake names to provide at trial. Something generic, like Evelyn? What was it her brother used to say— _the best lies are based in truth_. There had been a girl around her age in the Circle, an orphan with no connections. Eliza Creed.

There was a vision in the temple. Her voice echoing over the stone. The Divine, calling out to her for help. The Seeker demanded answers, but Margaret couldn't get the older woman's strangled voice out of her mind— _What happened? What happened what happened what—_

_I am Margaret Trevelyan._

If they really went so far as to pull records, they would find that Eliza Creed lived a quiet life in the Ostwick Circle tower, and has no family to track down and blame.

_I am the third child of Edward and Lucia Trevelyan._

They would _not_ find that Eliza Creed died in that tower nearly two years ago, because the only witnesses to the fall of Ostwick Circle are either rebels, scattered to the wind, or attendees of the Conclave, burned to ash at her feet.

 _I am from the Ostwick Circle in the Free Marches_.

Including one Margaret Trevelyan, who will be presumed dead with every other loyal mage from the Ostwick delegation. Her family will mourn, but they will be safe.

 _I am going to die_.

The Seeker and the elven apostate described how she would need to open the largest rift to seal it properly, which would surely invite a hoard of demons through, but also stop the steady stream of monsters cutting their way through the mountains. Margaret tried to keep her breathing even. She was a mage, and a fighter, and she was damn good at both. She’d survived this long. _And Andraste knows I don't deserve to._

Margaret can close this, save the rest of them. Even when she dies, she will do it knowing she’d done this one good thing. 

It was deceptively easy to open.

Later, she realized it was that surety, that swell of self-accomplishment when she tugged the rift open like a ribbon and found it laughably simple, that drew the massive pride demon forward first.

It was a terrible fight.

She found herself alongside Varric Tethras, the dwarf with a crossbow—and he clapped her on the back when the pride demon fell, raised a shout of celebration. Didn't notice the way she folded in on herself and leaned on her staff. 

But just before Margaret, barely conscious and bloodied, raised her hand to do what she had to, Varric caught her gaze.

“Hey, kid. What’s your name?”

 _I am Margaret Trevelyan_.

“Eliza.” The lie slid easily over her tongue.

_I am Margaret Trevelyan._

“Eliza Creed.”

_I am Margaret Trevelyan._

Varric nodded, and she turned towards the rift. Raised her hand, let the terrible magic with its off-key song call out to it. The mark drank her life force greedily as it worked to wedge the rift shut. It was working, it was closing, it was nearly finished—

 _I am going to die_.

The world went black. 


	2. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Seeker and a Spymaster trust a "nobody" mage to start an Inquisition.
> 
> A terrible decision, really.

Then, sunshine.

“ _Margie!_ ”

Margaret was suddenly surrounded by ornate flowers and greenery; a beautifully manicured garden that stretched on forever. 

“Margie!” The voice floated closer, teasing, young. Her sister? No. Sam. Her little brother, Samuel, darted around the corner of a hedge into what they called the Maze. They were playing a game, Templars and Mages. She was the Templar, and Sam the runaway Mage. She would chase him, catch him, and then it would be his turn. 

Of course, their big sister Natalie was too old to play these games with them anymore. She sipped dainty tea while Damian, the eldest, trained in the yard with the warriors. But Margie was still small for her age, a reedy eight-year-old with big brown eyes that got her out of trouble. Sam was six, and even she could barely match his boundless energy.

Margaret ran swiftly through the hedge—she’d memorized these twists and turns by the time she was Sam’s age. She found him quickly; it was hard to miss his giggles, but he kept eluding her grasp. It was as if every time she’d catch up with him, he’d turn to smoke at the end of her fingertips and reappear ten feet away. 

“Come on, Margie!”

He was laughing, his hazel eyes shining gold in the sunlight as he turned to tease her, matching his light hair. But she couldn’t reach him, and it felt wrong, like she wasn’t chasing him—she was losing him. Faster, faster, she had to run faster, stretch her hand out further, reach—

“ _Margie!”_

***

Margaret jolted awake, barely stifling her gasp. It was an old habit, waking silently; mages with nightmares didn’t last long in the Circle. Her heart was still pounding so hard that she didn’t realize where she was, for a moment. In a bed. In a cabin. In a... what?

Why was she not dead?

A girl was standing near her, with a tray, focused closely on not dropping it. She looked up, met Margaret’s eyes, and flushed a deep red all the way to her pointed ears.

“Oh!” 

The tray clattered to the floor. The girl dropped to her knees, apologizing profusely, and Margaret slowly slid out of bed.

“No, don’t worry about it.” She moved carefully, sure that this girl was terrified of the stories circling around her—the monster mage who killed the Divine.

“I’m sorry that I startled you.” Margaret helped her gather the tray, then gave her a small smile. “What’s your name?”

“Finn.” She had wild auburn curls and bright green eyes, and her freckles dropped a memory into the pit of Margaret’s stomach like a stone, burning with regret.

“Pleased to meet you, Finn. I’m—“ 

“Oh, I know who you are.” Finn nodded eagerly, still shaking. “They’re calling you the Herald of Andraste, and you stopped the Breach from spreading. It’s all anyone’s talked about for three days.”

Margaret stilled, and Finn stepped past her to set the tray on the end table.

_Three days?_

_The Herald of—what?_

“So they’re...not putting me on trial?”

“Oh, Maker no! I haven’t heard anything about that. But Seeker Cassandra said for you to meet her in the Chantry as soon as you woke up.”

Finn was gone as quickly as she’d come. Or, perhaps, Margaret’s memory was still a little fuzzy around the edges. She could barely remember what happened before—there was a jail cell, and snow, and demons. She remembered the Seeker, the apostate elf, and Varric Tethras, of all people—and apparently she’d done what she needed to do. She closed the biggest rift, stopped the hole in the sky from getting any bigger.

Perhaps they would let her leave? Quietly slink away and live the rest of her days in solitude. Become a solitary herbalist in some small village in the hills, the kind who people know is probably an apostate but is too useful to report to the Templars. As far as accidentally faking your own death goes, she’s done a pretty solid job.

Speaking of, Margaret checked herself for injuries as she changed and freshened up with the supplies she found in her room. She’d earned her fair share of yellowing bruises, and a few freshly healed cuts, but no noticeable swelling or broken bones. She ran a hand over one of the deeper gashes and felt foreign magic, a long-lasting spell that would help her skin knit itself together faster.

It was very well done.

She stopped in front of a small mirror, frowning at her reflection. Why had they spent such effort healing her? Surely not to just turn around and execute her. Finn must be correct. She needed to re-evaluate.

She’d already told Varric Tethras her name was Eliza. _Well, shit._ _  
_

Margaret combed through her dark hair and braided it back. Her skin was still paler than usual, but the dark circles under her eyes had begun to fade. When was the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep? Much less _three whole days._

“Maybe I should save the world more often,” she grumbled as she opened the door, and then immediately regretted it.

Soldiers lined the road, and villagers milled about, but the second she stepped outside it was like everything froze.

Everyone was staring straight at her.

 _Oh, Maker,_ Margaret stared wide-eyed right back at them, only one thought pushing through her mind.

_Run._

In the end, Margaret Trevelyan, in fact, did not run.

She joined an Inquisition. 


	3. Footsteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Commander of the Inquisition.

The newly-named Herald of Andraste was… something else.

Cullen first saw her at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, briefly, when they mustered their forces to fight that last battle and close the Fade rift. His Templar instincts had flared at the sight of her—a hardened battlemage, she cut a terrifying path through any demons in her wake. But she was also utterly exhausted, barely standing, and fainted the moment it was finished.

He had heard little about her from Cassandra and Leliana, only that she was one Eliza Creed from the Ostwick Circle. Leliana’s resources were still fairly limited as the Inquisition launched, and the best they could come up with were reports of an orphan girl who’d lived at the same Circle nearly her entire life.

The reports themselves were conflicting—some claimed Eliza Creed was a half-elf, some said she was the bastard daughter of a Teyrn, one said she was blonde and petite, another redheaded and towering. One contact from Kirkwall reported that she was dead. Leliana said that source was not fully vetted, but she slipped the paper into a file regardless.

“This could be to our benefit,” the Spymaster remarked coolly. “If no one really knows who she was before, we can craft our own history. Control the rumors.”

And rumors there were. The Herald flickered between uneasy, reserved, and downright sarcastic in equal parts. When she walked into their makeshift war room, her raven hair plaited behind her and her chin and shoulders even, she looked every inch a queen. She spoke clearly, offered clever suggestions, and always listened with her full attention.

But then she’d go have a drink with the soldiers and smile at their bawdy jokes. She swore on occasion, thoroughly and colorfully, and slipped into an accent he’d only ever heard in Kirkwall’s Lowtown when she did it.

_Who was Eliza Creed?_

If anyone asked a personal question, she would clam up completely. When she walked past the training field she’d given them a wide berth, and he noticed her jump at the clanging steel more than once. Odd, considering her prowess in battle. He’d thought at first that she was wary of him for being a former Templar—or of Cassandra for her Seeker status—but the Herald had been surprisingly receptive to them both. He wished he could say he was as forward-minded as she was, to put those old reservations aside so easily.

But the Herald kept a draught of lyrium tied to her hip, and that made it all the more difficult.

Cullen barely slept these days. Between the shaking, the pain, and the nightmares, it was impossible to get more than a couple of hours each night. He did his best to hide it, and to not let it affect his duties, but he felt Cassandra’s eyes on the back of his neck more than once.

It was one of those nights, when he was awake with the moons high in the sky, that he ran into the Herald.

She’d just returned from the Hinterlands, with plans for watchtowers over Redcliffe’s farms and a list of Chantry contacts in Val Royeaux. Her and her team had been gone nearly a month, and had apparently improved the refugee situation significantly, as well as spread the Inquisition’s reach and influence.

Now, the Herald sat at the edge of Haven, on the dock overlooking the lake. The Breach reflected its green eerie glow in the distance, but her brown eyes watched the moons.

Cullen was going to clear his throat, or say something, to alert her of his presence, but his boots crunching through the snow seemed to do the trick. She turned over her shoulder, giving him a small, welcoming smile.

“Good evening, Commander.” She pat a spot on the dock, and against all of his best intentions, Cullen sat down. “Or is it morning?”

“Somewhere in between, I think.” Cullen settled into the space next to her, careful to keep his elbow from brushing hers. “Good evening, Herald. Trouble sleeping?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “You too?”

“I… yes.” Cullen breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she allowed a comfortable silence to grow between them, instead of following up for an explanation. It seemed there was an unspoken understanding between them, that the reasons for their respective insomnia could stay private.

She picked up a clump of snow in her bare hands, and Cullen winced at how it must sting. But, he reminded himself, she was a mage—and she seemed to gravitate towards elemental magic. As if she’d read his mind, she cast a warming spell over them both, cutting the cold wind off from Cullen’s skin. It felt wonderful, even as his lyrium-deprived nerves spasmed and called out towards the magic.

“Commander,” She finally broke their silence, glancing up at him through dark lashes. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He responded automatically, and then internally kicked himself for agreeing before he knew what she would want to know.

“How long were you a Templar?”

Cullen relaxed. A simple question, and an understandable one. “I left home to join the order when I was thirteen.”

The Herald’s lips quirked up at the corners, as if she was suppressing a smile, but her eyes were sad. “That’s very young.”

“No older than I imagine you might have been when you joined the Circle.”

All traces of her smile died, and Cullen may as well have stuck his foot in his mouth.

“You’re right. I was twelve. But I didn’t exactly have any other options.” She shrugged and tossed the snow out onto the frozen lake.

“Twelve?” Cullen’s brow dipped into a perplexed frown.

“Yes, yes, I’m a late bloomer. I know.” The Herald smiled bashfully, and he swore her cheeks darkened, but the moonlight made her pale skin too luminous to be sure. “Can I tell you a secret, Commander?”

Her eyes were black in the darkness, reflecting the night sky. Just the two of them, sitting out on the lake, with nothing but the wind rustling through the trees—it made Cullen feel like nothing else existed. The Inquisition, the Breach, the war…

Cullen cleared his throat. “You can tell me anything, Herald.”

She paused, searching his face. For a brief moment, that cool mask she slipped on nearly at all times fell away. The Herald of Andraste looked like a normal woman, with secrets and a past and so many emotions running through her mind. _Eliza_ , he thought. _Her name is Eliza, not ‘The Herald’_. She’d been silent a beat too long, and he thought she might need encouragement. “Eliza?”

And just like that, the moment passed. Her mask snapped back into place, and she tipped her head back with a casual shrug that looked too forced. “I was going to be a Templar.”

Cullen couldn’t hide the startled look on his face. “What?”

“Yeah.” Eliza gave a short laugh. “I didn’t—I didn’t have many options, where I’m from, besides joining the Chantry. And I was too good of a fighter to become a Sister.”

“Clearly you’ve never met Leliana.” Cullen drawled, and Eliza nodded.

“Fair point.” She sighed, looking back out over the lake. “But I was. I was going to join on my fifteenth birthday, with my—well. The Maker had a different path for me than what I’d planned.”

“As He often does. How does the saying go? We make our plans, and the Maker laughs.”

“So it seems.”

They talked through the better part of the night, varying from lighthearted stories to haltingly skirting around the topic of the Rebellion, until the sun began to peek out over the horizon. 


End file.
